


search for tomorrow on every shore

by noviembre



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Time Travel, canon compliant (derogatory)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27912625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noviembre/pseuds/noviembre
Summary: "If the heat didn’t tip him off, the sharpness of the adrenaline racing through him and the bite of gravel kicked up by the passing tires settles it. He’s definitely not in Heaven anymore."--Dean, 24-year-old Dean, and Castiel walk into a motel room.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 85
Kudos: 726





	search for tomorrow on every shore

**Author's Note:**

> yes I am processing my feelings about the finale through 10K words of mostly just dialogue (hope you are not looking for real plot because there's not much of that here); also this is just an extended "it gets better" PSA from old, wise 2020 Dean to mouthy pre-series Dean. 
> 
> title from "Come Sail Away" because irony is over.

For the first hundreds of millions of years of her existence, Iridiel had been a low level, unnoticeable angel. She’d been ordered to Earth only once, and it was before the humans were even formed — back when the Lucifer was still God’s favorite and the only life on Earth was underwater. For a long time now, she’d been stationed as a guard in the corner of Heaven that contained the souls of birds. And she was a _good_ guard, a good foot soldier. She never questioned her post. It was tucked out of the way; the most excitement she ever had to deal with was when the parakeets inevitably escaped their little bubbles of heaven and had to be shepherded back. When the rumblings began of the coming apocalypse, Iridiel only heard fragments of the gossip secondhand, passed through the angels that kept guard over the larger felines — _the demons are gathering forces. Michael is preparing for war. His vessel is in Hell. The angels are mustering an invasion of hell._

_Dean Winchester is saved._

_The angel Castiel has taken a vessel. He watches over Dean Winchester._

Iridiel, for the first time since her creation, was ordered to begin preparing for battle in the coming war — The War, the final battle, where Earth would be cleansed and saved and Paradise renewed. 

And then everything started to get chaotic, and as things in Heaven progressively fell apart — as Michael was captured in Hell and the final battle didn’t happen, as an insurgency rose and decimated their ranks, at every turn — it was Castiel’s name on the lips of the angels. _Castiel_ , who disobeyed and rewrote their Father’s plan. _Castiel_ , who conspired with demons, led angels against Raphael and slaughtered hundreds. _Castiel_ , who worked with Metatron to strip them of their wings and send all of them plummeting to earth. 

It didn’t matter that Iridiel’s time on Earth was largely uneventful before Dumah found her and shepherded her back to Heaven. It didn’t matter that Jack, as he called himself, restored the wings to all angels who had lost them. Losing your wings, _falling_ , wasn’t easy to forget. 

Except after Castiel let Lucifer into Heaven, allowed the birth of his son, sinned against Heaven again and again, there were simply not enough angels left to remember all his transgressions.

The new angels — the ones created by the Son, Jack, from some of Heaven’s purer souls — they look at Castiel with star-shine in their eyes. 

To them, he was the savior, the one who rebuilt Heaven, who fought and sacrificed himself for their God and was reborn at his word. 

Iridiel, as one of only a few angels left who remember Heaven before, is not unnoticeable anymore. They come to her, in her corner of Heaven where she stations herself with her birds again — she _likes_ the birds; it’s the task God gave her and the task she will carry out. And they gossip, because they want to hear her stories. Except that when she tells them that things used to be better, that Castiel broke Heaven before he rebuilt it, they won’t hear what she tells them. They say things like _he taught you all free will_ and _wow what was it like when he first saved Dean Winchester_ and _it must have been so sad here before Castiel made everything better_. 

Now the angels are allowed to have some semblance of feelings like the humans do, and Iridiel feels _bitterness_. She never doubted an order in her entire existence but now she _doubts_ Castiel. She _doubts_ the Son. 

If only she could get Castiel out of the way for a bit. She just needs time to properly explain to the new angels that it is so much better without feelings, or questions, or anything other than the simplicity of carrying out your task. But Castiel is annoyingly present — he refuses actual leadership, of course, spending most of his time slumming it in the human Heaven with Dean Winchester or flitting off with Jack. Still, he pops in and out of the garrisons without warning, getting to know the new angels, constantly blocking Iridiel from being able to make any ground on getting them to understand the truth. 

So Iridiel watches the birds, and uses these new feelings to feel spite. 

And eventually, she has an idea.

* * *

The first thing Dean notices is it’s too hot. It’s never actually too hot in heaven. It’s usually warm, sometimes with just a bit too much sun in the sky that it makes a cold beer that much sweeter on a long afternoon. But he feels like he’s been slapped suddenly with a blast of hot dry air, heat like a physical presence even with the sun low in the sky.

He may be rusty but a lifetime of instincts never goes away. 

First: surroundings. He’s standing on asphalt, and squinting against the golden light he can see hills in the distance, far away but high enough that he’s gotta be somewhere west of the Rockies. There are a couple scraggly palm trees jutting out from the dirt strip along the blacktop he’s popped up on so — southwest, high desert from how hot and dry the air feels. He’s guessing Arizona or deep inland California, maybe Nevada.

Next: resources. He’s just in a flannel over his t-shirt and jeans, no jacket, no gun in the back of his pants. He checks his ankle and yeah, no knife strapped there. He doesn’t arm himself in Heaven, not unless he’s heading out for target practice or to spar with Sam or Cas or Charlie, and right now he’s feeling really naked without any weapon. 

And — he’s gotta get off the road right _now_ , he realizes abruptly. Dean jumps off the freeway to the dirt embankment rising up to meet the overpass as the irritated trucker lands on his horn, sounding his displeasure. 

If the heat didn’t tip him off, the sharpness of the adrenaline racing through him and the bite of gravel kicked up by the passing tires settles it. He’s definitely not in Heaven anymore. 

His reaction to the realization is mostly: _huh_. _Interesting._ Kicked out of Heaven has kind of an ominous ring to it, and maybe there’s something big and dark going down. But it’s not his first resurrection and yeah, he’ll admit to himself it’s kind of comforting knowing he’s got friends in high places. 

Whatever’s going on is unexpected, maybe dangerous, and it’s been a long time since he’s had something truly unexpected happen. So maybe it’s a bit reckless of him, but he doesn’t immediately send up a prayer to Cas or Jack. (Jack very rarely answers, preferring to just stop by the house when Dean’s making burgers and act like dorky kid instead of, literally, the most powerful being in creation, but Dean’s pretty sure this would catch his attention. Cas always answers.) 

Instead, he scrambles down the embankment. There’s a shuttered liquor store to his right, a truly old-school gas station across the street. The faded lettering along the side advertises _Minute-Man Service,_ a relic from the days when signs were all painted by hand instead of printed up. Dean loves that kind of stuff — it used to be all over the place when he was first driving around with his Dad, but got more and more tucked away, whitewashed by chain stores and mass produced signage. He peers in the window but there’s no one inside and he can’t catch a glimpse of a newspaper to figure out where — or when — he is. 

He heads back out to the street, trying to decide which way to head next. Holding his hand up against the sun and looking back at where he landed on the freeway he thinks there’s something familiar about the cluster of buildings visible under the overpass, on the other side of the interchange, and heads that way. The other side of the freeway is clearly the outskirts of whatever tiny town this is, where things get seedier. The first motel he passes — the Desert Mirage Inn & Suites — has all the additional dignity that comes with having the most visible sign from the freeway, hoisted up on a faded pole visible to every trucker on the overpass. In every town like this, that means it’s gonna be at least $8 a night more than the next one down, which — _jackpot,_ Dean thinks. 

He’s not sure if it’s deja vu or if he’s just drawn to the flickering neon light of the “Best Motel” because it’s exactly where he’d stay on a job in a town like this. Its faded sign offers the fairly un-enticing tagline “Try Us, You’ll Like Us” and it’s got a shitty dive bar facing the parking lot so yes, this is a _classic_ Winchester venue. 

All the motels start to blend together over the years but as he gets closer he realizes he’s pretty sure he actually has stayed here — maybe during that stretch of jobs he worked along Route 66 a lifetime ago, when Sam was off at Stanford and he took every job in the western U.S. he could find just so he wouldn’t waste too much money on gas driving up to Palo Alto between hunts, just to keep an eye on things from a distance. 

He draws even with the entrance to the parking lot and yeah, there goes any doubt about having been here before. The most beautiful sight on earth is the Impala, sleek lines catching the light of the fading desert sun, undisputed queen of the motel parking lot.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs as he approaches her. He’s gotta be careful, because if she’s here then there’s a version of him and/or Dad and/or Sam not far away. Pressing his hand against the front window to block the sunlight as he peers in, he looks to see if there’s any clear indication of when this is; of course, he’s always been meticulous about keeping his baby clean, so there aren’t multiple cups to tell him if he’s hunting solo or not, not much lying out except the old cassette box and a newspaper on the dashboard.

He does his best to stay in fighting shape in heaven, training for nothing but the enjoyment of a clean cluster of holes on a target or the thrill of the rare occasion when he gets the drop on Cas and pins him to the mat. But he doesn’t actually _hunt_ in Heaven, hasn’t for some indeterminate length of time that may be a couple weeks and may be 50 years, so that’s his excuse for not hearing the footsteps behind him until they are embarrassingly close.

“Hey pal,” says a familiar voice, and Dean can’t tell if he wants to laugh or groan or both. _Of course._ “She’s more a look-but-don’t-touch kinda lady.” 

He doesn’t have to know the voice inside and out to recognize the threat lining the otherwise-friendly tone, and he’s pretty sure when he turns around there will be a hand on a gun, not drawn but visible. He lifts his hands off the car, raises them in an obvious _don’t shoot_ posture.

“She’s a beautiful car, man. Can’t fault a guy for checking her out.”

He can tell that even the compliment doesn’t defuse the tension, because he was really obviously doing a lot more than admiring the car. “You’re not wrong, but it’d be a lot better if you stepped away from her anyway. Better to have a face-to-face chat anyway.”

Dean steps back from the Impala, still turned away. “I’m gonna turn around now,” he says, “but I need you to not immediately shoot me when I do, okay?”

Before there’s a response — because he doesn’t really expect one — he turns, hands still in the air and as unthreatening as possible, and looks himself right in the eye.

“Hey, Dean,” he says.

* * *

The great thing about this motel is there’s a dive bar practically built in, so he doesn’t even have to worry about cutting himself off before he can’t drive anymore. He’s still keyed up from the hunt — he got lucky, the dead guy was buried in a mausoleum instead of a grave, so even though he’s gonna have a killer bruise on his hip from where the ghost got in one good whack, he didn’t have to spend a few hours digging up a grave solo. Now he’s got that good post-hunt adrenaline surge going, the kind of energy where he either wants to fight something or fuck someone. If there’s no cute bartender chick or local singles, he’s got an itch under his skin that means he may have to rile some guy up to provoke a fight just to get the energy out. 

Except — as he steps out of the motel room, he realizes he may not even get all the way to the bar before the fight finds him. Because there’s some asshole pressed all up against the Impala. He can’t see his face but from the way he’s got his hands cupped at the window he’s clearly looking way, _way_ too intensely at the inside. For a split second Dean wonders if he left a weapon or the box of IDs on the bench seat but the guy’s not dressed like law enforcement anyway. Plenty of people stop to gawk at the Impala — she’s a beauty — but they do so from a distance or they check out the sleek lines of the hood. Not to mention, every one of Dean’s instincts is lit up, telling him _something is WRONG here._

He sidles up behind the guy, walking quietly like he’s entering a vamp nest, one hand wrapping around the handle of his colt where it’s stuck in the back of his jeans. 

“Hey pal,” he says, and is gratified by the way he can tell just from the way his shoulders tense that he’s caught the creep off guard. He laces his words with a warning because whoever this asshole is, he has picked the wrong guy to mess with.

Except — when the guy replies, there’s something familiar in his voice, really weirdly familiar. It takes a while for him to turn around, to the point that Dean starts getting even more suspicious than he already is. _Do I know him?_ Dean wonders. Maybe another hunter, or a werewolf that got away a while back or something.

Then, finally, the guy turns, and _what the fuck._

At first he thinks, wildly, that it’s a relative but — shit. Dean hasn’t hunted a shapeshifter before; he got sidelined the last time Dad came up against one. But that’s what it’s gotta be because he’s looking into a weird, funhouse mirror version of his own face. He just wraps up a hunt in this teeny-tiny town and now there’s a shifter here too? What are the goddamn odds? That’s some real Winchester luck. 

Dean’s hand comes off the gun and goes straight for the blade in his back pocket instead. Except — damnit, he was just heading to the bar, just across the motel parking lot. He doesn’t have a silver blade on him.

“I’m not a shapeshifter,” the shapeshifter says, like he knows what Dean’s reaching for. 

“Maybe not a very good one,” Dean tells him, trying to buy time. “You really fucked up my face, you know, did you get mixed up with an old man or something? I’m not fuckin’ _fifty,_ dude.”

The shifter huffs a laugh, “Gonna hurt my feelings, kid,” and he reaches out his arm. Dean grabs for his gun again — regular bullets won’t do shit on a shapeshifter but at least maybe they’ll slow it down enough that he can get back to the motel room, where the silver blade and bullets are sitting _totally fucking uselessly_ in his bag. God, Dean is so glad his Dad isn’t here to see this. 

“Cool it, trigger-happy,” the shifter says. “Just giving you easy access for the silver test.”

And yeah, it’s really fucking embarrassing that even the shifter expects him to be a better hunter than he is. 

He sees realization dawn on his own features, and the shifter nods his head toward the motel room. “Weapons bag’s in there, right? I’m unarmed, I’ll walk in front, you can keep the gun on me if it makes you feel better.”

The shifter doesn’t wait for acknowledgment, just starts striding confidently towards Dean’s room. Dean tries not to think about how little control he has of this situation right now. 

“You’ve been spying on me, huh,” he says, feeling like such an idiot — _how did he miss this,_ this guy was turned the other way when he came out of his room which means he’s been tracking him at least since he got back from the hunt an hour ago. 

The shifter pauses by the door and gives him a half-smile. Dean _hates_ looking at it, hates seeing his own expressions on his own face (plus, like, thirty years, those wrinkles are freaking him out). “First floor, corner room, farthest from the road, and the parking lot’s empty which means you wouldn’t have had any problem getting your choice of room. It was this or the same room on the other end, and the Impala’s parked closer to this side. I don’t need to spy.”

The fuck? Dean is seriously spooked and channeling it straight into anger. Who the fuck does this guy think he is, running through the Winchester playbook like that. The shifter looks back at the door, waiting for Dean to unlock it, and — fuck this. Dean moves _fast,_ raising his gun up to slam it into the back of the shifter’s head, hoping he can at least stun it while he gets past it to the real weapons. 

Except the shifter seems to know what he’s going to do before he does, and in one slick, well-practiced move he’s got the gun out of Dean’s hands and Dean pressed up against the door. 

“I know all my own moves,” the shifter tells him. 

“You are way too in character, man,” Dean jabs. “I didn’t realize that method acting was so big in the shapeshifter world.” The shifter actually has the nerve to laughs as he grabs the motel key out of Dean’s pocket, unlocking the door and firmly pushing Dean inside.

Dean’s now closest to the weapons, but the shifter’s still got his gun. At least whatever game it’s playing, it’s not trying to kill him right away. The only thing Dean can do is try to kill time, figure out what exactly it’s after, and try to avoid getting tied up too tightly. 

Except—

It goes to the bag and picks up the silver blade, totally unbothered, and hands it to Dean handle-first. “I figure you’ll want to test yourself.” It offers up an arm, and in the hazy golden light filtering through the motel curtains, Dean can see a scattering of faint scar lines up and down its arm. He thinks for a half second about just stabbing it in the heart and calling it a day, but there’s something really throwing him about how trusting it’s been and about how well it seems to know him. So he begrudgingly slices a clean, shallow line and watches as nothing happens other than a very slight wince and a welling up of red, human blood. 

The guy looks at him expectantly. “Figure the holy water shower is next up, but if I’m getting my timing right, you probably aren’t carrying holy water around yet, are you?”

“What do I look like, a priest?” Dean snipes. 

“Only when the job calls for it,” the guy responds, clicking the safety on Dean’s gun on and setting it down on the table by the door. “And hey, free advice — start carrying holy water.”

“So you’re not a shapeshifter. Want to start explaining exactly _right now_ what the fuck is going on before I start testing out every weapon in this bag? I don’t know what you are but I haven’t met much that decapitation doesn’t work on.”

The guy looks at him for a second and then actually snorts with laughter, his crows feet crinkling up. “Sorry, I’m sure you’re very intimidating but seriously it’s like being threatened by a teenager. I can’t believe I ever scared anyone like this.”

If Dean wasn’t already pissed off, the fact that he’s now being patronized really makes him see red. 

“Listen, buddy—“

“Time travel.”

Dean blinks. “What?”

"You already know it’s the obvious explanation. I’m you, but from the future.” 

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not the first time. I’m not sure why I got dropped here, this time, though. Usually there’s a clearer explanation.” The freaky thing is, now that Dean’s watching him closely, he actually looks like he’s telling the truth on this one. He does look exactly like Dean but older — Dean sees where the lines that crinkle up when he laughs could settle in as wrinkles, can imagine himself getting a more military-style haircut like a lot of older hunters, recognizes the broadness of his Dad’s shoulders in how he could fill out a jacket. And Dean knows all his own tells. He’s spent hours in the mirror training himself out of them for the next time he gets arrested, but the echoes linger. There’s no over-widening of the eyes, no muscle pop in his jaw, no flicker of broken eye contact. 

“Time travel isn’t possible.”

“Lots of things are possible.” The guy drops into the chair closest to the door. “I’ve done it a few times. Wild west was my favorite. And now I’m in, what, 2002?”

He ignores the question. “If you’re actually me, Marty McFly, prove it.”

The guy quirks an eyebrow up at him. “What’s your test?”

Dean thinks for a minute, leaning back against the shitty linoleum of the motel kitchen. So many secrets that are just too much, and some that are too embarrassing for him to say out loud even to some guy who’s maybe also him (he’s not bringing up the Rhonda Hurley story with this guy, no way).

“Safe words.”

The guy ticks them off on his fingers. “‘Funky town,’ I’m under a gun. ‘Bell-tower,’ cops are listening. ‘Running water,’ you’re in danger, and ‘Poughkeepsie,’ drop everything and run. You want aliases too?”

Dean breathes out. “Okay. You’re either legit or a good enough imposter that frankly, I’m flattered by the attention.” He winks on autopilot at his — holy shit — future self. 

Old-Dean just looks fascinated by him. “What hunt are you on?” he asks. “I think I remember this, but it’s been a while.”

“Needles, California. Dead guy’s been haunting a parking lot, of all things. 3 deaths before I ganked the son of a bitch.”

“That’s right,” old-Dean says, snapping his fingers in recognition. “Guy was sleeping with a married woman and the husband ran him over. I worked this one solo, didn’t I?”

Hell yeah he did. “Dad’s out east,” he says. Even if it is him from the future he’s not trusting himself enough to do something as stupid as give out Dad’s exact location. 

“And Sam’s at Stanford,” old-Dean says. 

Dean guesses that after however many years, the bitterness gets easier to swallow because the old guy sounds calm about it, doesn’t sound stretched thin with the emotions of Sammy _leaving._

“Don’t talk about Sam,” he says instead, too-sharp voice betraying him. His older self levels him with an even look, and Dean feels jittery under the attention. His future self seems so centered, none of the restless energy that Dean feels under his skin, and Dean wonders what he’s going to go through that’ll change him so much. He can’t ask that, yet, but he starts with the easier question: “So what year are you from, anyway?”

There’s a long pause before the answer, as Dean looks out the motel window. “Twenty-twenty.”

He whistles lowly. That seems impossibly far off — like, holy shit, he survives til he’s 40? — but also way too soon in the future for him to have aged as much as he did. 

“And we’re all hooked up with DeLoreans in the future, is that it? Or is this some witch bullshit?”

His older self shudders a bit. “No witches, fuck that.” He stretches, propping one boot up on the other chair, looking totally casual. “Nah, there’s only a couple things with the mojo to pull this off. It’s about time we got some answers here.” He slants a truly amused look over at Dean. “If you thought meeting me was bad, you’re gonna hate this.” 

Old-Dean tips the chair back, looking up at the ceiling and then just — starts talking to the ceiling. “Heya, Cas. Feels like old times. I’m in Needles, California, Earth. The Best Motel, room 124. It’s a real classy joint, you’ll love it. Uh, 2002?” He looks over at Dean for confirmation. Dean, not really knowing what do do about the fact that his future self is apparently cuckoo for cocoa puffs, corrects: “2003.” “Scratch that, 2003. Amen, over and out.” 

“Uh, pal,” Dean says into the sudden silence after the guy’s, what, prayer? ends. “Something happen in the last 17 years to make you go completely insane?”

Old-Dean grins wide. “Oh yeah, plenty, but it’s a wild wild world out there, kid. You don’t know the half of it yet.”

Yeah, he doesn’t like the sound of that at _all_. 

“Not sure how long we’re gonna have to wait til my ride gets here. You got any beer?” old-Dean asks. 

Before Dean can tell him to fuck off and get his own beer, demand that he give him some real answers on what the fuck is happening, the hair on the back of Dean’s neck stands up

There’s a rustling noise and — what the _fuck_. Dean startles to attention, standing bolt upright. 

There’s another man in the room. 

No flickering, no cold spots, just — there was air, and now there’s a guy there. 

At least, it’s shaped like a guy, but something smells like lightning and he can just _feel_ a sense of power. Whatever this thing is, it’s strong and it’s got some serious mojo. 

Dean’s been a hunter his whole life. Maybe he doesn’t know what the fuck this thing is, but he sure as hell knows that anything that can do that is something that the Winchesters hunt. 

He doesn’t let himself stand around and gape — the old Dean is saying “Oh shit, Dean, _don’t”_ but he’s already drawn his colt and planted a bullet right between the creature’s eyes. 

The bullet goes in, so it’s not a ghost, but it doesn’t fall. It just looks kind of annoyed.

Not a ghost, and usually a bullet at least has some kind of impact on a vamp. Shapeshifter, maybe, he thinks for the second time that day. They’re fast though he’s never heard of one that can _fucking teleport._

He’s eyeing his bag where he tossed the silver blade after testing old-Dean, trying to figure if he can get to it before it grabs him or if he’s going to have to improvise, when the thing starts to glow, right on its forehead where Dean shot it. And then there’s no hole at all anymore. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Dean hisses. This is something serious. Something powerful. Dean just shot it straight in the head and it didn’t just walk it off — it healed the hole completely. 

Maybe — fuck. It has blue eyes, not yellow, but could it be some kinda demon? He’s really going to take old-Dean’s recommendation about carrying holy water seriously. 

The thing opens its mouth and growls, “Hello, Dean,” in a voice that really doesn’t match its kind of dorky tax-accountant-slash-soccer-dad style. The kind of voice that says _more power in this gun than meets the eye_. 

More than anything else — more than the way it appeared, the voice, the freaking bullet healing act — it’s the fact that it seems completely unthreatened by Dean that freaks him out the most. Something in its tone, in the way it looks at him, it’s like it knows Dean couldn’t do anything to hurt it. And Dean’s taken down some pretty tough creatures, so the fact that this thing is so powerful that it feels absolutely safe around him is. Well. He’s man enough to admit when he’s scared as hell. 

It looks over at the other one and adds in that deep rumbling voice, “Or should I say, Hello Deans. You’re not supposed to be here.” 

“Cas,” old-Dean says to it, warm. “Took ya long enough.” Dean’s so startled by how weird his old self sounds that he can’t help but look over to where old Dean’s rising from the table. 

It’s just a second before he snaps his eyes back to the thing — one of the cardinal rules of hunting, _don’t look away from the thing that could kill you —_ but it’s long enough for him to see that his future self looks like, totally happy to see this thing. Those old-man wrinkles at the corners of his eyes are even deeper than they were before and his eyes are all warm as he — holy hell — walks right up to the thing and claps it on its shoulder, totally friendly, like he’s best pals with the teleporting maybe-shapeshifter monster.

“My apologies for keeping you waiting, Dean, I only had to search through a million years of space and time to find your soul before you got around to praying,” it says, and it sounds — kind of bitchy?

“Not to be a broken record but, what the _fuck,_ ” Dean says, mostly to his older self but also to the world in general. 

Old-Dean gestures at the thing. “Dean, meet Cas. Try not to shoot him again. Cas, Dean.”

“We’ve met,” it says, and now it definitely just sounds like it’s being sarcastic-slash-bitchy. In a weird way it reminds Dean of Sam. It’s kind of smirking a bit as it looks pointedly at old-Dean and adds, “Obviously.” 

Old-Dean rolls his eyes. “Not this version you haven’t, smartass.” 

“What _are_ you?” Dean has to ask. Maybe by the year 2020 this kind of monster is common and god, that’s a scary fuckin’ thought. He’s got his hands plenty full with vamps and werewolves and spirits as it is. 

The look on the thing’s — on Cas’s, apparently — face is _definitely_ a smirk as it turns back to him, making really intense direct eye contact. “I’m an angel of the Lord.”

“Bullshit. There’s no such thing.”

Old-Dean actually laughs out loud, suddenly. “Oh man, this is too good. Yeah, kid, angels are real.”

He shakes his head because _no way._ Leveled-up monsters he can buy — things always get worse, harder, scarier — but angels? That’s a whole slippery slope that leads to nothing in his world making any sense anymore. “Maybe he’s got you fooled with the eyes and all that but there’s no way,” he tells himself. “No one’s ever, _ever_ met an angel. Nada.”

“This is your problem, Dean,” his old self says, sounding way too fucking entertained by the situation. “You have no faith.” Both him and the creature — Cas — look amused right now, exchanging little looks that make Dean feel like somehow he’s missing an inside joke. Three people in the room, two of them are _literally the same person_ and somehow he’s still in the dark.

Old-Dean looks over, sees the look on his face, and sighs. “Cas, you gotta do the wings thing, otherwise he’ll never believe you.” 

“It’s not important that he believe me,” Cas says. “It’s probably better if I just —” he lifts up one hand with two fingers extended towards Dean, and Dean dodges _hard_ to the side. Hell no to whatever that was. 

Old-Dean shrugs. “Humor me.” 

Cas slants him a look. “You’re not fooling me. This is as much for you as it is for him.” His future self gives him a look Dean recognizes instantly — the patented Dean Winchester _who, me? I would never_ innocent face. 

One insanely mind-blowing light show later, and Dean’s — well, not convinced, exactly, but he doesn’t really have a better explanation at the moment. He sure as hell doesn’t trust this guy (he doesn’t really trust his old self, either) but he doesn’t seem to be an immediate threat, and the way his future self is totally calm about the whole thing helps relax him enough to sit back down on the bed. The fact that his knees are kind of weak after the whole _wings_ thing has nothing to do with it.

“Okay, so let’s say I believe you, that you’re an angel.” Cas nods. “And at some point in the future we become, what, allies?”

Cas looks distinctly amused at that. “You could say that.”

“How did we even meet?” Dean has to ask, because — well, there’s one obvious way a human meets an angel, something that makes sense in a way he doesn’t want to think about. 

“I stabbed him,” old Dean says, and yeah, that’s really not what Dean was expecting. “In a barn,” he adds helpfully.

“Well,” Cas says, and then they make eye contact for a second and something Dean’s missing clearly passes between them. He wonders if angels can communicate telepathically because sure, why the fuck not, all the rules are out the window today anyway. 

“You shot me, first. Then the stabbing,” Cas finishes, after a long pause, and Dean can somehow tell it’s not what he had been about to say. His voice is dry as dust as he adds, “Good to know that there are some constants in the universe. Dean Winchester always shoots me the first time we meet.” 

His older self grins. “Right, like you didn’t do the whole lights-sparking-wind-blowing intimidation act on purpose.” 

“I wasn’t settled in my vessel yet, Dean, as I have _told you_ —” Cas sounds long-suffering and yeah, for a second he actually sympathizes with the angel. He knows he can be a little shit when he wants.

“So I guess angels can time travel, is that it?” he interjects. “You sent him here?” 

“Yes and no,” the angel says. 

There’s a pause. He doesn’t elaborate.

“About that,” old-Dean prompts when there’s no further information. “Should I be worried?” He gives a kind of all encompassing hand gesture.

“I don’t believe so. My suspicion is that this was about me. Your soul… departing…” he seems to be choosing his words carefully, like there’s something he doesn’t want to say. “It left a rupture and I could sense the grace of the angel responsible. Iridiel, one of the few remaining angels from the first creation. I am aware she has complaints about my, uh. Renovations.” Cas looks pissed now, and Dean shivers. No matter how casual his future self is with this guy, how sarcastic he seems to be, Dean can’t forget this is something that could kill him with a thought. “I will deal with her later. Tracking you down before you got into too much trouble was my first priority.”

“Aw, Cas, would I ever get myself into trouble?” old-Dean drawls. 

Cas still looks dark, but there’s a glint to his eye as he responds, “If there’s one person I certainly don’t trust you with, it’s yourself,” nodding over at Dean as he speaks.

Old-Dean smirks. “Touché. Well, I hate to spoil the fun but I’m guessing we should, uh. Head back.”

Somehow, of all fucking things, that’s what seals the deal for Dean. No version of himself would miss the opportunity to make a Back to the Future reference, which can mean only one thing. 

Dean’s stomach turns at the confirmation of his suspicions. The air feels thin as he drags in a deep breath. 

“Before you do, can you just tell me one thing?” he asks, and he knows his voice sounds thin from the way they both look at him. His cheeks heat, embarrassed by his own weakness, but: “How did I die?”

Old-Dean’s face just — twists. “Shit,” he breathes.

Maybe it’d be hard for anyone else to see but Dean knows the look of heartbreak on his own face. 

Cas looks sad, and his voice is gentle even as he says to old-Dean, “You shouldn’t have told him, Dean.”

“I didn’t say anything,” old-Dean tells him, still looking straight at Dean. He sounds pained, quiet as he asks, “What gave it away?”

The smugness at having been right is just a brief flicker, giving way to the taste of something sour at the back of his throat. He stands, takes a few steps away from them just to get out from under the pitying looks. 

“I’m not an idiot,” he says. “Lots of things. Started when I realized you were way too calm about being here. If I was hunting with Dad or — or Sam — and I got dropped in a weird timeline, I’d be tearing the place apart to get back to them.” Old-Dean makes a quiet humming noise behind him. Dean can’t look at them, hates how needy he sounds, but he has to ask: “Does that mean… Dad and Sam, are they…”

It’s Cas who answers. “The answer is both yes and no. Time in Heaven does not run parallel to time on Earth. They are in Heaven the same way that everyone alive on Earth right now who deserves to ascend is also in Heaven.” 

He shakes his head, staring hard at a spot on the wall where the ugly maroon wallpaper is peeling away to reveal splotches of yellow water-damage beneath. “You know what I’m asking.”

There’s a long beat of silence before old-Dean says, still sounding way too kind, “Cas, you’re gonna have to wipe his memories after this anyway.”

The sound of a sigh, and the angel says, “Try to avoid specifics. They always snag in the memory. Makes it harder to wipe clean.” 

“No specifics. Okay,” old-Dean says. “You get to save the world a bunch of times. Like at least three apocalypses” — “Six,” the angel quietly corrects — “and we went out with a gun in our hand, like we always knew we would. We get the yellow-eyed demon. Mom and Dad even see each other on earth again for one last family dinner. Sammy gets to live a long, happy life. Wife, kids, the whole nine yards.”

And Dean — Dean hears the things he’s not saying, hears how Dad must _not_ have lived a long, happy life. Hears that there must have been a hell of a lot of blood, of pain, of loss to stop the world from ending _six_ times. But Sammy gets to be happy and hell, Sam’s happiness has always counted double for Dean’s anyway. The knowledge flips his stomach, same bittersweet feeling like watching Sam get on the Greyhound to Stanford. 

“We’re good, Dean,” old-Dean goes on, gentle, resolute. “At the end of the day, we had a great run. And Heaven actually is all it’s cracked up to be these days.” 

Dean swallows hard, blinks away the prickling behind his eyes, _get a fucking grip, Winchester._ He turns away from the wall to look back at where his old self and the angel are sitting at the table. Cas is looking at his old self and — the look on his face is weird. Dean can’t quite place it.

“Hey, by the look of you I made it a lot longer than I thought I would. Always figured I’d die young and pretty,” he says, because he’s Dean fuckin' Winchester and he may be facing his dead future self and an angel of the goddamn Lord but that doesn’t mean he’s ever gonna quit with the one liners. 

“Dean,” Cas says, standing, suddenly putting his intense focus straight on Dean. It’s the first time since he arrived that he’s put the full weight of his gaze on him, instead of over on old-Dean, and it’s a _lot_. Dean feels examined, like he’s laid out on a medical examiner’s table and the angel is over him with a scalpel. He feels _seen_ in a terrible, thorough way and he wants to look away except the only thing worse than this kind of angelic x-ray would be breaking the eye contact. “You’re more than just a soldier. You’re worth so much more than you know.”

And Dean thinks, what the fuck do you even say to that. He swallows hard, jaw clenching, fists tightening. He wants to punch the angel. He wants to break down and cry. Belatedly, he thinks angels must have some kinda mind-reading because how else would he be able to find the most sensitive bruise on Dean’s soul and press it.

He settles on anger.

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” he spits. “Who are you, waltzing in here and playing Doctor Phil at me?” 

All hint of amusement is gone from the angel’s face, and his eyes narrow. And yeah, part of Dean is realizing that he is intentionally pissing off the most powerful thing he’s ever met and maybe that’s not his smartest idea ever. 

“Cas, hey,” Old-Dean interjects, standing between them and placing one hand on the angel’s shoulder. Finally, that intense blue gaze turns away from Dean, like the Eye of Sauron’s been distracted, and he can breathe again. “Can you give me a minute with the kid here?”

There’s a rustling noise and suddenly the room is one occupant emptier. 

“He’s just protective,” Old-Dean explains. “It’s a lot, I know.”

Dean rubs a hand over his face, less keyed up now that the angel isn’t in the room radiating power and anger all over the place. “Some guardian angel,” he mutters.

Old-Dean actually laughs at that. “Yeah, he’s not the halo and harp kind.”

And he knows he’s showing his hand even as he says it, but fuck it — it’s just him, anyway. “So what, it was his day off when Mom died? When — when _you_ died?”

His older self looks at him for a long moment and he looks so defeated, suddenly. He sits back down in the chair and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Don’t put those on Cas. Mom, that couldn’t be prevented. Trust me. And I, we, just — sometimes hunts go south. You know that.” 

And sure, he knows it, but he scoffs anyway. “For dumbass hunters, maybe. If you’re smart you don’t get dead.” It’s bitterly satisfying to spit out the insults at this other guy, like the version of himself he sees in the mirror come to life. 

“One day you’re gonna be one of the best hunters in the world,” old-Dean tells him immediately, matter of fact. Something in the way his eyes widen, just a hair, tells Dean he’s kind of surprised by what he just said. He goes on, quickly, like he’s covering up the way he just startled himself. “But Cas was right, you know. I know all the shit Dad puts on you but you gotta remember, you’re more than just a soldier.” 

The prickling in his eyes is back again and he rubs at them angrily. “Enough with the chick flick pep talk, okay, I’m not _Sam_. I’ve got a job to do, and I’m gonna go out doing it.” Dean knows the tone his older self is using, even through the gravel of his old self’s voice. It’s been a year since he’s heard it, since Sam abandoned them for Stanford, but the Big Brother voice never goes away. Being treated like a kid brother sets off something deep inside him, something sharp-edged and too close to _want_ for him to be comfortable. He covers up the bitterness fast, sneering, “I don’t want the white picket fence bullshit anyway.” 

For the first time since he showed up at Dean’s car, his older self looks genuinely shaken, a look in his eyes that’s almost lost. He looks away, looks at the wall like he can’t meet Dean’s eyes, and draws in a deep breath. 

“Kid, I gotta say this to you, and maybe you’re not gonna hear it now but I… I have to say it. It’s not fair the cards you get dealt. What you’ve already got on your shoulders already, the weight you’ve had to carry. And in the next few years you’re gonna go through some things, and it’s gonna be hard, real hard sometimes. And you’re gonna think you deserve it. That it’s all you’re good for, to be a punching bag, as long as you’re punching right back. It’s not, okay. You deserve better.” He looks back at Dean, looks him straight in the eyes now, and his voice is like steel. “It’s not fair, that you already think you’re gonna die young. And hell, it’s not fair the way it happens.” 

And hell, Dean knows his older self is clearly working through some stuff, but jesus if it’s not stripping him wide open anyway. No one’s ever told Dean that he deserves anything, ever, except maybe overly chatty spirits telling him he deserves a painful death before he lights them up. 

Dean wants to scoff _Hey pal whoever told you life was fair was selling you something_ but his tongue is like lead and he thinks if he tries to speak right now he might actually start full-on girly crying. 

Jesus, the look in old-Dean’s eyes when he talked about his-past-slash-Dean’s-future sends a chill down his spine. He’s never seen shadows like that in his own eyes and his mind is shooting out worst case scenarios of what could possibly lie ahead. 

_You deserve better_ , he hears again, and it’s both the best and worst thing he’s ever heard. 

They’re both quiet for a long moment, composing themselves. 

“Don’t suppose you could give me a sneak preview, just so I know what to look out for,” he quips, and it’s weak as hell — they both know it, he’s just gotta say _something_ to break the silence that’s settled over the motel room.

Old-Dean huffs a broken laugh, running his hand over his face. “Cas’d kill me if I told you any more.”

“What, is he perched on your shoulder or something? Keeping you on the straight and narrow?”

It’s more a straightforward question than a joke but old-Dean finds something real hilarious in that, some of the wrecked look leaving his eyes as he tilts his head back and laughs. “Cas, hope you heard that one.”

And _jesus fucking christ_ the angel is back in the room again. 

“Dude the door is _right fucking there,_ ” Dean hisses. There is no reason to keep skyrocketing his blood pressure like this. 

“Are you—” old-Dean looks closely at the angel. “Are you just showing off?” 

Now that he’s a little more able to look at Cas without feeling like he’s going to shit himself, he thinks he sees something like shyness chase across his face. Like he’s been caught.

“I like past you,” the angel says, and there’s a definite note of defiance in his voice now. “He’s much more reactive than you are now.” 

Old-Dean laughs again at that. “Sorry, pal, the popping in-and-out lost its shock and awe factor sometime during the first apocalypse. Even with those years, you know.” He makes a totally incomprehensible hand gesture and the angel glares at him. 

It’s blowing Dean’s mind to see himself so casual with a being that powerful. And it’s also weird because — in this line of work, you don’t get many close friends. You get allies, fellow hunters that you’re in a foxhole with where you trust them to have your back and you buy them a round after the hunt’s over, and you don’t hold out much hope that you’ll cross paths again. But the way old-Dean’s so open with the angel, like they’re best friends — he’s never been that close with anyone other than Sammy. 

He never let himself expect much, given the life he leads. Not a lot of room for romance in hunting. But when he’s drinking sometimes, in a good mood, he thinks maybe, one day, he’d find some hunter chick and things could work for a few years. Having someone who’s got your back and as good in bed as she is with a shotgun is just about the best Dean could ask for.

“So Sam gets married,” he says. “But I’m a bachelor to the end.” It’s not really a question but he wants an answer anyway. 

“No wedding for us,” old-Dean agrees, too casual. “White’s not really my color anyway.” 

And yeah, he knows when he’s dodging a question. Does it every day of his life. He takes a different approach: 

“Well, bet there are plenty of chicks in Heaven, right?”

“Yes,” the angel interjects, gravelly, “Plenty. In the avian regions.”

Dean genuinely can’t tell if he’s joking or if he’s just socially clueless. He looks over at his old self for his reaction — he’s rolling his eyes. “You think you’re hilarious, Cas, don’t you.”

“I only answered his question,” Cas says. Yeah, now that Dean knows what to listen for he definitely gets the sense he’s being fucked with. 

“Come on, Cas,” old-Dean says, sounding seriously entertained now and nudging the angel’s leg with his boot. “The kid version of me wants to know if there’s sex in Heaven.”

Which — kind of isn’t exactly what he was asking, but it’s also yeah, something he wants to know. He’s got the nausea swallowed down about the knowledge of his upcoming death so he figures he might as well get some details in the mean time. (There’s definitely gonna be a whole lot of whiskey in his future over that one, but there are a few things Dean knows he’s the fucking best at: hustling pool, beheading vamps, and repressing the hell out of trauma with a grin on his face.)

“The secrets of Heaven are not for man to know,” Cas intones, but old-Dean’s giving him a look like it’s the funniest shit he’s ever heard, and Dean realizes it’s yet another of the looks he usually pulls out for hot bartenders. And they’ve been making Meaningful Eye Contact since the angel first popped into the room, and something really, really deep in his gut — in a part that he usually keeps locked away and shoved in the dark — turns over, reaches toward the way their eyes just keep finding each other like a compass finding north.

It clicks for Dean. 

No fucking way.

“No _fucking way,”_ he says. 

The angel cocks his head, like he doesn’t understand. But Dean looks straight at himself and yeah, that’s confirmation in the way his eyes widen, in how he slants a quick glance at Cas. 

“Guess we’re really more than just a pretty face, huh,” old-Dean quips, caught off guard. 

“You’re kidding me. You went _gay_ for an _angel_ ,” he asks, definitely hearing a note of hysteria in his voice. It’s not possible. 

Any part of him that could have — that maybe would have looked at a guy and said, _huh_ , has been stomped hard to the back of his mind, locked in a box marked “absolutely fucking not” ever since the day his Dad came back from a hunt early and found him with Seth, the guy he was supposed to be working on a group chemistry project with at Prairie View High School, on the janky couch of the apartment they were crashing in for a couple months. And Seth had looked at him a certain way that made Dean’s stomach flip over; given him terror and adrenaline like the heartbeat when the air goes cold and the lights flicker and he knows the ghost is about to materialize. The worst fuckin’ part of it is that nothing had even _happened,_ nothing had been happening — Dean had flirted up a storm but hadn’t built up the courage to actually make a move — and still, when Dad opened the door and found them sitting too-close, he looked sick when he met Dean’s terrified eyes and Dean’s entire body went cold. Dad had yelled way, way too much for it to just be about “safety protocols.” 

After that he’d left for a full two weeks and didn’t check in at all til the fifth day. And any part of Dean that has ever even remotely considered anything _at all_ about guys hasn’t seen the light of day in almost a decade. He knows he likes women, and that means he can’t be gay.

Except right now the box with all those feelings has popped open and Dean feels adrenaline flood his body at the thought that at some point he’s gonna just be that open, that _queer_ , so obvious that he could clock it on himself in under two hours. 

“Technically, I don’t have any gender at all,” the angel says, sounding unbothered. “If that helps.”

This day has been really _fucking weird_ and he needs a drink bad. He remembers suddenly that he’s got a half-full flask in his bag and retrieves it too quickly to have any semblance of cool about it, taking a long swig and feeling the burn settle in his empty stomach. 

“So you’re what, also a girl on the inside and you just look like a dude?” he spits.

“I’m not human, Dean. And I’m not the first male body you’ve been attracted to either.” Cas intones like he’s stating the laws of physics. 

Old-Dean stares off into the middle distance for a second, looking long-suffering. “Dude, could you have phrased that in any creepier of a way? You’re gonna send me back into a sexuality crisis along with the kid.” 

“No way, man,” he says. “I like chicks. This shit isn’t me.”

“That’s true,” his old self says mildly. “Doesn’t mean you can’t also like guys. And guy shaped angels,” he adds as Cas gives him a look. 

“In all the years I’ve watched humanity, no one has ever been so obsessive about gender and sexual preferences as modern Western society,” the angel adds. “Frankly, it’s tiresome.” 

Dean’s not even going to try to respond to that one, focusing on his old self instead. “So you, what, took ‘reach out and touch faith’ literally?” he taunts. God, at least it sounds like Dad wasn’t around to see this. What a fucked up small mercy that is. 

Old-Dean actually laughs at that. “You’re not wrong, kid.” His voice goes a little quieter, thoughtful, and he looks down. “There were a lot of years I didn’t have faith in much of anything except Sam and Cas.”

It’s quiet for a second, and the angel puts a hand on old-Dean’s shoulder, squeezing. It’s the most physical contact Dean’s seen between them this whole time and it’s _nothing_ , just a grip on the shoulder, except the casual intimacy in it sets his teeth on edge. He wants that. He wants desperately to _not_ want that. Fuck.

“Anyway,” old-Dean says, sounding more normal as he glances up at the angel before looking back at Dean. “I’d tell you to get over yourself but I know for a fact it’s gonna be a while before you do, so I’ll just say, don’t be a dick, dude.” 

“For what it’s worth,” the angel says, “all the religious bigots are wrong. Heaven is indifferent to orientation. Your father—"

“Cas,” old-Dean cuts him off. Dean was ready to bristle at the insult, and he thinks his future self knew it.

The angel glares. 

“He’s not a fan,” old-Dean tells him, conspiratorially. “First time they met he almost punched Dad in the face.” Dean tries to imagine _that_ and fails. 

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” the angel says. He and old-Dean share a look. “We can’t stay much longer.”

“Are you—” old-Dean starts, then sighs. "Yeah, okay. Well, kid, his has been an, uh, educational hour, I’ll say that.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Dean tells him. He thinks _now I know what_ not _to do so I turn out better_ but he can’t say it. Knows it would ring hollow anyway — his older self would see right through him, probably the angel too, both of them seeing the _want_ scraping along his bones.

Old-Dean smiles at him, a little sadly. “Take care of yourself, kid.” 

And there’s a rustle, and the angel is _right there_ and raising his arm—

The last thing Dean thinks is _wow, his eyes are really blue._

* * *

Dean and Cas stand there for a long moment, looking at the kid where he’s passed out on the bed. The sun has dipped below the horizon; the blue-green glow of the neon sign outside the motel window smooths out the panes of his face, making him look even younger than he already is in sleep. 

“I like him,” Cas says. 

Dean huffs a laugh. “Yeah, you would, you’re both bratty.” His heart’s not in it, though — he feels stretched thin, like he’s coming down from the intense adrenaline high of a hunt.

Cas tosses him a look like he’s about to get offended but clearly there’s something on Dean’s face that stops him, because his eyes go all soft and concerned. “Dean,” he starts.

Dean shakes his head, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m okay. Just — that was a lot.”

Cas doesn’t say anything, just moves to stand at his side, arm nudging against Dean’s. The contact grounds him and he needs it, needs more of it, wrapping his arm around Cas’s shoulders and pulling him in close. Dean feels the pressure of Cas resting his head against Dean’s shoulder, hair tickling his neck. He thinks about the reaction of his younger self and has to swallow back a sharp twist of regret — he was so repressed, so self-loathing, for so long, and they missed so much time on earth because of it. His arm tightens around Cas as he looks down on his own face. 

“He’s so young,” he says, softly. No matter what, it’s hard for him to even think of this kid as _himself._ He’s about the same age as Sam was when they started hunting together, Dean thinks. “In five years he’ll be in hell. Jesus.”

Cas’s voice is gentle. “In life, you were never this kind to yourself.” 

He’s right. Even now — Dean’s really good with himself, these days, life with Cas having done a lot to wear down the guilt and self-loathing he used to carry close to the surface — but he doesn’t know if he could ever feel the kind of tenderness for himself that he’s feeling right now, for the kid that shares his face knocked out on the motel bed before them.

“I don’t see him the way he probably sees himself, you know? Like he’s all repression and anger. He feels like he failed in his one duty for having let Sam go to Stanford. And I remember feeling it, but now? Now I just see a kid who had way too much shit put on him.” Dean’s not sure where the words are coming from; he’s not processing them before he speaks, but it comes out true. “He’s too young to be carrying the weight of the world, you know? And it’s only gonna get worse. God.” 

He can’t look at his younger self anymore, peaceful in angel-induced sleep, no idea what a shitty, painful road he’s about to go down. He turns, wraps Cas into a full embrace, presses his face against Cas’s shoulder to hide the tears that are pricking his eyes. Cas strokes his long fingers through the close-cropped hairs at the back of Dean’s head, cradling his skull. 

“You didn’t deserve what you went through, Dean,” he murmurs. “He doesn’t. You didn’t.” 

It’s a long moment before Dean can pull away. 

“Okay,” he says, rubbing a thumb under his eyes. “Okay. So. You said some angel was pissed at you and threw me here?”

With a hand on his lower back, Cas steers him gently out the door of the motel room. 

“Iridiel, yes. I’ve been keeping an eye on her for a while. I suspected she might make some kind of move.”

The desert air is still hot even after sunset, everything a dusky purple. Cas, fully powered up, in the suit and trenchcoat he defaults to when he’s not stealing Dean’s flannels, is otherworldly against the backdrop of the motel parking lot. In Heaven, with angelic power lining everything, it’s less noticeable; here on earth, Dean thinks, anyone passing by has to know he’s something extraordinary. He swallows, tries to stay on track. 

“This was her master plan, then? Kick me back in time for a minute?”

“It’s an attempted distraction for me,” Cas says. “She assumed — correctly — that I’d drop everything and search for you if I felt your soul leave Heaven. I think she wanted the opportunity to try to turn the other angels against me.”

“Shit, Cas—“

“As I said, I anticipated this. I had angels ready to keep an eye on her as soon as I left. She’s contained, and I’ll deal with her when we return.” Cas’s eyes crinkle into a little smile. “As far as threats go, you’ve faced worse than an hour in a motel room with yourself.” 

Cas is such a smug little bastard sometimes. God, Dean loves him.

“Any idea why 2003?” Dean asks, leaning up against the railing of the motel walkway. “Just random?”

“I think so,” Cas says. “Her actions were mostly borne of spite, not strategy. I’m assuming she just wanted to kick you back in time enough that you wouldn’t already know me. Your soul fell here because it was tethered to your presence here in the past.” 

Something occurs to Dean. “When I prayed to you, would your past self have heard that too?”

Cas looks even more smug now. “No. You didn’t pray to him.” He pauses for long enough that internally, Dean rolls his eyes. He knows Cas is just drawing this out for dramatic effect. “You prayed to _Cas,_ and I heard it because that is my name, now, from you. In 2003, the angel Castiel wouldn’t have heard that prayer, because he didn’t answer to Cas.” 

And that — somehow, the fact that this piece of Cas’s whole identity shifted after meeting him hits Dean. He remembers Cas, the last time he saw him alive, telling him _you changed me_ and somehow this, this tiny dumb thing, the nickname he gave the angel back before they were even friends, makes that real. He’s a different person-slash-angel now. 

Dean meets Cas’s eyes, and despite Cas’s lofty tone his eyes are warm, like he knows what Dean’s thinking. 

“I think your 2003 self was probably less fun than my 2003 self, that’s for sure,” Dean says after a beat. 

“Much,” Cas agrees. 

“You were a lot more fire and brimstone, when I met you,” Dean continues. “Now you’re much less threatening.” 

And, _yes,_ Cas’s eyes narrow just like he expected, but the tilt at the corner of his mouth gives away that he knows Dean’s goading him on purpose. “I’ll give you fire and brimstone, Dean Winchester.” 

Dean grins, tugs at Cas’s lapel. “Prove it.” 

The metal railing of the walkway is hard against his lower back as Cas crowds him against it, wrapping a hand around the railing on either side of Dean’s hips to cage him in. After all this time — Heaven time is different, so it could be a week or a year that he’s had this, with Cas, but he doesn’t think it’ll ever get old, the feeling of Cas’s body lined up against his. The way Cas kisses him like it’s a mission, like it’s the most important thing in the world. The scrape of Cas’s stubble against his as he bites a kiss into the corner of his jaw. 

Dean’s so wrung out from everything that he needs this, needs the simple physicality of Cas tugging at his hair, controlling the kiss, letting Dean follow as he takes the lead. 

Dean’s breathing hard by the time Cas pulls back, pressing one final, gentle kiss against his lips before stepping away. Dean looks at him and — “Hey, Cas. I love you.” 

Cas’s eyes glow, his smile wide and pleased in the neon light of the motel sign. Dean doesn’t say it as often as he should, the words still unfamiliar in his mouth, but it gets easier every time and he needs that tether right now. Needs the lifeline to who he is _now,_ not who he was. 

“I love you,” Cas tells him, easy as anything. “Let’s go home.” 

The sound of wings flapping in the dark desert air, and the parking lot is empty.

* * *

Dean wakes slowly, squinting against the bright morning sunlight coming in through the window. He feels more well rested than he has in years, more tired from the hunt than he realized. He must’ve gone into some deep REM sleep or something, he thinks, trying to chase the memory of the strange, intense dreams but they slide away too quickly, leaving just a memory of piercing blue eyes. 

His feet are tight in his boots and he realizes he must have just passed out instead of heading to the bar like he planned. He shakes his head to clear it, running a hand through his hair. 

It’s just a few minutes’ work to pack up the weapons bag, though Dean pauses to wash off a bit of dried blood on the silver knife that must have been left behind from the werewolf hunt back in Las Cruces.

The sun is bright as he steers the Impala onto I-95, heading due north towards the meet-up point with Dad outside Twin Falls, Idaho. As he crosses the narrow stretch of the Colorado River that marks the border with Arizona, light catching on the river makes him think of blue eyes again, and Dean feels strangely alone for a moment, like he’s half expecting someone there at his side. 

_Weird_ , he thinks. _Get a grip, Winchester._

He reaches out for the volume knob and cranks up the cassette that was already in the deck, letting the sound of Styx fill the car and drown out the noise of his own thoughts as he punches the gas.

_We live happily forever, so the story goes_

_But somehow we missed out, on that pot of gold_

_But we'll try best that we can_

_To carry on_

_A gathering of angels_

_Appeared above my head_

_They sang to me this song of hope_

_And this is what they said_

_They said, come sail away, come sail away_

_Come sail away with me_


End file.
